


Neither Took nor Baggins, But Something in and of Itself Entirely

by PrincessLuca22



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Sassy Bilbo Baggins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2019-11-06 22:17:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17948165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincessLuca22/pseuds/PrincessLuca22
Summary: Neither Gandalf nor the Dwarves were prepared for the Hobbit they found at Bag-End. Gandalf is ready to retire back to Valinor, Thorin's hair is graying at a more rapid pace then ever before, and Bilbo's tongue is sharper than any sword could ever hope to be.*Rating/Warnings/Tags may change as story progresses*





	1. Gandalf is Unprepared; Bilbo is Unamused

**Author's Note:**

> My first fanfic! I have no beta, so all grammar has been thrown out the window by myself and google docs. Thank y'all for reading this, please leave a comment and/or kudos. No flames, thank y'all kindly. This was written solely for fun. Disclaimer: I do not own anything from The Hobbit; all rights go to J. R. R. Tolkien. I make no money for this piece of fictional writing and never will.

    A tall man dressed in worn grey robes travelled slowly down a well-trod road that ran between numerous hills. The hills themselves were covered in the most perfect jewel toned grasses while daintily scented flowers grew in brightly coloured clusters. Why, if one was over 6 feet tall and turned their head to the south, they would get an amazing view of a small lake made of water so pure and clear that it seemed almost as if a piece of sky had fallen and was content to stay were it had landed. All in all, it was quite idyllic and seemed like an area one would dream to live in, or at least vacation in.

    Which is why it is no surprise at all that it was, in fact, a settled area, with quite a bustling population. Brightly coloured, round doors sat nested into the hillsides alongside little round windows. Little (and not so little, noticed the tall man amusedly) gardens were nestled in quaint front yards, or to the sides of hills, and why one even was encroaching on the top of the hill and road, snagging on both the man’s robes, hat, and staff!

    After wrestling back his possessions (In which he was almost not successful, and doing so took an embarrassingly long time,he had to admit.), the man idly took note to avoid for the foreseeable future (At least until the winter, or a more proficient gardener was hired, whichever came first.) and continued on his way after plucking a rather enticing tomato in payment for his troubles. Yes, the man thought to himself, the Shire was always quite an adventure in and of itself.

    Slowly but surely, the man made his way towards his destination. Finally, there it was; Bag End, of Bagshot Row, located in the village of Hobbiton, which itself was in far-eastern Westfarthing, of The Shire. (Which was the man’s 2nd favourite region of Eriador). Even better, his intended victim, er, target, was outside lounging in the sunlight. Smiling, the man readied himself. It was Showtime.

 

* * *

 

    Hair the colour of freshly tilled earth shone subtly in the sun, in a way only brought on by living well and living long can. A soft patterned yellow vest was buttoned smartly over a crisp white shirt. With a pair of shin-length, taupe pants ironed and creased to perfection, the outfit was completed by a robin’s-egg blue silk ascot tied impeccably. Curious pointed ears poked through riotous curls, and even more curious where the disproportionately large feet topped by even more silken, brown curls. Yes, Bilbo Baggins was an exceptionally hobbit-y looking hobbit.

 

* * *

 

    Bilbo lazily blew smoke rings, perfected then improved over the 20-odd years he had been smoking. Eyes closed, he cracked a smile around the stem of perhaps the ugliest smoking pipe this side of Arda. Carved from oak, it was dyed a startling, bright purple. As if the colour wasn’t gaudy enough, the entire bowl was made of a rose that, unfortunately, was more reminiscent of a cabbage due to an  over-abundance of petals/ cabbage leafs and colour choice. Making matters worse, the stem was carved with the pattern of fsh scales. To top off this valar-forsaken pipe, the bit was a chunk of once brilliant copper; now badly oxidized and thusly green. (Caused by the pipe’s unfortunate luck of being owned by a member of the one race who didn't particularly care for the aesthetic pleasure of metals.)

 

    One could wonder 4 things about this pipe.

  1. Who could have made this monstrosity?
  2. Who would BUY aforementioned monstrosity?
  3. Why would the unfortunate owner own/use this pipe almost exclusively?
  4. Did the inherent ugliness actually affect the taste of pipeweed?



 

    3 of those 4 could easily be answered.

 

    Belladonna Baggins, nee Took, purchased it from an unknown vendor on one of her last ‘adventures’. It was thusly given as a present to her only child, one Bilbo Baggins 24 years ago. (Hobbiton residents noticed The Pipe™️ immediately and kept track of how many years they were forced to be in its presence.) Uncommonly known was the fact Bilbo had a complicated relationship with it. Receiving it shortly before 26th birthday, he originally planned on keeping it just long enough to be considered polite before ‘misplacing’ it. (i.e.; breaking it and burying the pieces across the Shire, never to be reunited.) Unfortunately, Belladonna passed away before the polite time period was up, as well as before giving Bilbo another gift. So, Bilbo faithfully kept The Pipe™️ as a bittersweet memory of his beloved mother, and also because his parents had Melkor-damn near beat all 28 rules of Gift-Receiving into him as a faunt. (#15; Gifts recently given by the newly deceased must never be discarded or purposefully misplaced, broken, or forgotten. #16; Gifts recently received by the newly deceased must be used more than once a season, permitted they are not themed for holy days, celebrations, and/or festivals.) Lastly, Bilbo swore that the pipe did NOT adversely affect the quality or taste of pipweed. A fact which was not believed (How could they trust someone who only ever used said pipe to have an unbiased opinion?) to the point where taking a puff from “Mad Baggins’” pipe had become a rite of passage for the local youth.  

    As Bilbo continued puffing away, his ears picked up the sound of someone noisily walking up the road. Now, as Hobbit ears weren’t just for show, (the pointed ears were surprisingly sensitive,) the fact that this pedestrian could be heard approaching from over 30 feet limited this visitor to one person; Lobelia Sackville-Baggins.

 

* * *

 

     Bilbo heard the (assumed) bane of his existence finally stop in front of him. With his eyes still closed, Bilbo decided to try and head off her tirade before it started.

    “I’m afraid I can’t invite you inside for tea. Sudden case of gout. You know how it is. Yes, I’m feeling particularly gout-y today.”  The sputtering was to be expected, but the deepness of the noise was not. “Yavanna have mercy, Lobelia. Have your eight pipes a day suddenly caught up to you?” Bilbo finally looked and.. Well. This was certainly not a lady hobbit in front of him. (Unless it was an exceptionally ugly hobbit, but that wasn’t something to be said before elevenses. No, that was something to say to Belle Gamgee over tea time.) Well then. Considering this stranger rudely interrupted Bilbo’s morning smoke, Bilbo felt no need to be polite. “Excuse me, but, who are you?”

     Finally, being somewhat properly addressed seem to shake the man out of his stupor. Standing up, the grey man asked “Why, Bilbo Baggins, are you saying you don’t remember me?”

    “Obviously not, being the reason why I’m trying to inquire who you are.”

    “Why, I am Gandalf, and Gandalf means me!”

    “Gandalf? Gandalf, Gandalf, Gandalf…” Bilbo was forced to think about the name while he dumped the contents of his pipe onto the marigold bed. (He silently apologized to his gardener Hamfast Gamgee.) “Why, surely not the Gandalf who used to have such amazing fireworks.” Bilbo studied the wizened face in front of him as Gandalf seemed to grieve over the fact that he was remembered only for fireworks. “I do beg pardon, and not to be rude, but, if you really are Gandalf, how are you alive? I mean, Gandalf was ancient when i was but a faunt. If I’m remembering correctly, men typically do not live that long?”

     After hearing this, Gandalf seemed vexed, but soldiered on to continue this increasingly off-kilter (for a Hobbit) conversation. “Why, to think I’d live to see the day Belladonna Took’s only son wouldn’t recognize me! Belladonna must have changed, and not for the better, if she never mentioned leaving the borders of The Shire with me. And I am not a ‘man’, for I am a wizard.”

    Bilbo, choosing to ignore the slight against his late mother, responded with a quick “Oh, that was you? Terribly sorry, but she only referred to you as The Meddler.” leaning forward, Bilbo asked, “Now, what hare-brained scheme have you volunteered me for?”

 

* * *

 

    To say that Gandalf had been prepared for this conversation was like saying Sauron had been but a minor inconvenience. Right away, all of Gandalf’s 378 Possible-Greetings-and-Responses were thrown to the wind. Gout? Gandalf had 700 years of interacting with Hobbits under his belt, and not once had one ever mentioned gout.

    Then, it got worse. In rapid succession, he was unknown, then known for fireworks, then accused of being so old he should be dead, then dealt the final, killing blows of being referred to as “The Meddler” and being straight out asked what scheme he was here to force upon. Gandalf, with no time to recover, had dazedly mentioned a quest involving 13 dwarves to be discussed at dinner, that Bilbo would be holding,

    The absolute fury on Bilbo’s face made Gandalf wish he was currently facing Smaug. _Smaug_ would never yell about “stupid men and their unappreciativeness of proper Dinner-Party hosting”, or “There are reputations on the line!”. _Smaug_ would never hit him with a truly awful pipe for drawing a rune on his door. (“I JUST HAD THAT PAINTED LAST WEEK!”) And lastly, _Smaug_ would never deal such a crippling blow to his reputation by muttering “Idle hands make big plans? Idle hands spend time at the genitals, for Took’s sake.” on his way to the market. (Gandalf had been pleased with his “Idle hands make big plans” excuse. He, in fact, had been excited to defend himself with it before the White Council. At least, before a small 4 foot _menace_ had ruined it.)

    So, Gandalf did perhaps the most sensible thing he ever did, and beat a tactical retreat. As he was fleeing, dignity in tatters, he wondered if he should bring a bottle (or several) to dinner. Surely it would soothe Bilbo, to be a proper guest by bringing the host a gift. It also had the added benefit of, without doubt, being needed to keep Gandalf’s sanity during (and after) dinner.

  While contemplating wine pairings, Gandalf felt a sliver of pleasure appear. For all that appearances may suggest, Bilbo Baggins was, without question, the most un-Hobbit-y acting Hobbit he’d ever had the (dis)pleasure of meeting. Yes, Gandalf had chosen well for this quest.

 


	2. How Bilbo Became the Newest Scandal, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all I meant to finish this chapter and have it posted like a week after the first one was published. Whoops. I'll try to have the next one up in a week and a half or sooner.

Gandalf, Bilbo had decided, was completely out of his mind. Furthermore, his mother (May her soul rest in Yavanna’s Garden) must have been out of her mind as well. How could she have travelled with someone who took such liberties? Honestly, how could a sentient being that had interacted with Hobbits before, think that it was an acceptable idea to throw a medium sized dinner party without informing the host until the day of? (Truth be told, Bilbo had a gut feeling that Gandalf hadn’t originally even planned on informing Bilbo of his ‘guests’.)

* * *

 

Bilbo headed towards his destination with such single-minded determination that it seemed if an oliphaunt got in his way, he would simply plow through it. Now, seeing as Hobbits as whole are  _ not _ as sturdy as an oliphaunt, the ones who were unfortunate enough to be on the same road quickly stepped aside. 

 

Stopping at a smaller smial nearby, Bilbo jiggled the door (Wiggle it to the left  _ just _ enough, then lean your shoulder above the doorknob and it should…) and it easily opened under his expert ministrations. Absentmindedly, he patted the heads of the numerous faunts he came across. (It was a testament to how often this happened that the faunts weren’t even fazed by the fact that ‘Mad Baggins’ had opened their locked door, acknowledged them, and continued on his well-memorized way.) 

 

“Bell! Bell, my beautiful rutabaga, where are you?” Bilbo called out as he wandered towards the kitchen. 

 

“Bilbo? Is that you?” A short (even by Hobbit standards), stout woman appeared around a corner with a baby slung around her chest, and a slightly older one sitting on her hip. With curly hair the colour of brushed copper swept up into a messy bun, she had tanned, freckled skin, big doe eyes set above a button nose and the chubbiest cheeks this side of the Brandywine. Wearing a plain brown skirt, a stained white apron embroidered with hollyhocks, a mint vest and cream blouse, Bellflower Gamgee was the truest (and prettiest) picture of a Hobbit Mother one could ever see.

 

“Woe is me, Bellflower.” Bilbo threw himself against the wall. “Remember how I told you about my mother warned me that if The Meddler came, it was to drag me along on an adventure, with or without my permission?”

 

“Oh, Bilbo! Please tell me he didn’t appear?”

 

“Aye.” Taking wee Samwise from Bell’s hip, he tapped his little nose in greeting before continuing. “And, as if it wasn’t  _ already _ the worst case scenario, Gandalf just informed me that I’m to be hosting dinner for 14 in 8 hours! 13 dwarves and a wizard, not including myself.” A large sigh ruffled Samwise’s little copper curls. “I need to head to the market. Let little Hamson and Halfred know that they can each earn a pretty shilling for delivering my groceries.”

“Of course Bilbo. Do you need any help to bake? I could make the rolls or scones? What about planning? Do you already have the courses chosen?”

 

“I would appreciate some of your butter rolls, but no, I have no idea what to serve. Honestly, I don't have time to organize and plan an acceptable dinner.” Bell watched as Bilbo started to pace. “I have no idea what’s in season, what they have at the market, I haven’t budgeted!” Bilbo quickly spun around and pointed his index finger at Belle. Samwise giggled and clapped, enjoying the fast movements, completely unaware (or ignoring) his holder’s rapid descent into hysteria. “In  _ fact _ ! These, these…  _ Guests _ ,” Bilbo spat the word with such venom Bell almost covered little Marigold’s ears out of reflex (nevermind the fact she was 7 months old), “Should be  _ honoured _ that they are getting a taste of Baggins hospitality!” 

 

Bell watched in amusement as Bilbo carried on. Gently herding him to the table in the kitchen, she sat him down, shooed Samwise away, and placed a cup of chamomile tea in his hands.  “Bilbo; stop.” Her firm interruption paused him mid-inhalation. “Now, since it’s last minute, simply serve a 10-course. The Meddler never stated it was to be a formal course, did he?” 

Bilbo grumbled into his teacup. “No, but  _ I _ have standards, Bell.”

 

Bell held up a hand. “Settle down. Who cares? There's not going to be any judgemental, gossipy matrons there. Nobody will know.”

 

“But  _ I’ll  _ know. I won’t ever be able to keep my head held high because I’ll be crushed under the weight of my failed hosting. It’s a very heavy weight to bear.”

 

“Says who?”

“Lobelia. Can’t you tell? Her posture is abysmal, and so is her hosting.” 

“Bilbo!” Bell laughed and swatted him. “That doesn't have anything to do with cause and correlation.”

 

“I should head to the market now.” Bilbo pushed his chair away. “Thanks for being a voice of reason.”

 

“Of course my dear friend.” after giving Bilbo a farewell hug, she added “After all, who else in The Shire would be willing to deal with your theatrics?”

 

* * *

  
  


Berries and Citrus were in season at the market, and they were cheap. Grapes and cherries had arrived early this year, so the fruit vendors were desperate to load off their lemons, oranges and grapefruits. After arranging for the two oldest Gamgee lads to pick up the fruit and berries, Bilbo headed towards the butcher. Following his purchasing of several chickens and three racks of lamb, he started to head home. At least, that was Bilbo’s plan until a grotesque mash of fabrics and hat stepped in front of him.  

 

“So, I hear you're hosting an informal dinner,” a shrill voice announced loudly. “One must wonder why your family isn’t invited. After all, it's only the proper thing to do.”

 

Bilbo plastered a fake smile on his face (though to call it a smile was generous; it was more of a grimace). “Lobelia. To think that I was enjoying the bird songs until your voice scared them away. If only I were a bluebird so I, too, could fly away once I saw you open your maw.” An ugly flush appeared over Lobelia’s cheeks. “Oh well. Yavanna puts us through struggle so we can appreciate her bountiful harvest even more. Now, what were you going on about Lobelia?”

“DInner! I know you're hosting one Bilbo Baggins, so don’t try to deny it. It’s obvious from your purchases.”

 

“Lobelia, am I going to have to get the Sheriff? You know stalking is a criminal offense. But, yes, I am hosting a dinner.”

Her flush intensified, Lobelia tried to get the conversation back on track. “Well, why weren’t Otho and I invited?”

 

“Simple; it’s for my past lovers. We’re going to get drunk, argue over why we didn’t work, and hopefully I’ll get lucky by the end of the night. Now, considering you don’t have the right bits, and Otho isn’t exactly my type, why would you be invited?” Bilbo’s deadpan delivery made a choked, scandalized gasp escape from the trash heap named Lobelia. “I’m joking. It’s for a family friend I haven’t seen in years and their ragamuffins. Pardon, but you’ll have to excuse me Lobelia. I just found out this morning, so I’m in a bit of a rush.” As Bilbo tried to breeze by her, she asked such a malicious question that all the other Hobbits in the marketplace gave up the pretense of pretending not to eavesdrop: “Oh? Are you so busy that you need help? I’ll be glad to drop off a  _ stall-bought _ pie for your supper if needed, Bilbo.”

 

* * *

  
  


The market was quiet. The last time such a public display of this proportion occurred in The Shire, a Took had broken off his engagement to marry what he claimed was a ‘fairy’. It had divided the population, and as a direct result helped develop the very strict Hobbit Sensibilities and emphasis on one’s Respectability. Even though The Broken Engagement (as it had come to be known) happened over one thousand years ago, no Lightfoot had even had a dalliance with a Took, let alone been engaged. (Even being friendly seemed to push the envelope.) 

 

The crowds breath was held in anticipation. How would Bilbo respond to such absolute slander? They didn’t have to wait long. Slowly, Bilbo turned around on the balls of his feet. 

 

“Why, Lobelia.... That’s a bold thing to offer. In fact, it reminds me of last autumn. Specifically, how I was hired to cater a particular second birthday.”

 

An even bigger gasp could be heard from the crowd. Lotho Sackville-Baggins’ second birthday party was widely considered the crowning glory for Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, mainly due to the fare.  Spluttering, Lobelia heavily denied the insinuation, calling Bilbo a liar for good measure. 

 

It was the wrong thing to do. A vicious glint appeared in those pale green eyes, while a predatory grin slowly spread over his face. Gone was the undeniable hobbit cuteness; replaced by something so ruthless the surrounding Hobbits fight-or-flight instincts were ready to kick in. 

 

“My, my, my Lobelia! I hadn’t even  _ mentioned  _  a name! But, obviously, if the apron fits, wear it. I do beg pardon though. To even mention that was bad manners, but to implicate yourself in public? How..  _ scandalous _ . Mortifying, really. I wonder if one’s reputation could even recover from such a blow?” 

 

A screech so unpleasant had everyone in the vicinity wince. Following that unholy noise, Lobelia swung her parasol at Bilbo’s head.

 

* * *

 

 

A dull thunk was the only response. Bilbo had managed to parry Lobelia’s assault with his pipe. Quiet noises of amazement rippled through the onlookers (though most of the amazement was from were on Arda had Bilbo pulled that pipe from).

 

“Aggravated assault in front of over a dozen witnesses?” In one fluid motion, Lobelia was disarmed and the parasol landed in the dirt while she was given a quick rap on the forehead from the ghastly pipe. “Isn’t that rather... Plebeian for you? Honestly, what’s gotten into you?” Pulling out his pocket watch, Bilbo checked the time “Please, someone needs to call Otho or the Sheriff; she’s hysteric. I don’t have time for this; I have a dinner to make.”   
  


* * *

 

   

With that being said, Bilbo bustled out of the market and headed home, faunts trailing behind loaded with groceries. With all the not-subtle staring directed his way, Bilbo failed to notice the heavy stares coming from a pair of dwarrow. (If he did, Bilbo would have undoubtedly called them perverts.)

 


	3. Dinner Hasn't Even Started and it's Already Not Going Well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness I am so sorry about the wait. Life snowballed away from me. I know I haven't responded to any comments, but I read and treasure every single one. Thank you all so much for the kudos, bookmarks, and kind words.

    It was of Bilbo’s opinion that everything that needed to be done, was done only by some form of Valar intervention. Obviously, he was prejudiced to believe it was Yavanna, but at this point he was so grateful he sent thanks to all 14 of them and Eru  Ilúvatar, just to cover his bases. (Valinor  _ forbid _ he thank the wrong one and everything go bottoms up in retaliation.)

    Somehow, in between the cutting, peeling, basting, seasoning, mixing, freezing, setting and hundred other little actions that make up cooking a large dinner, Bilbo had managed to update his will, have it notarized and sent on its merry way, pack a travel bag, air out the guest rooms, sweep and mop the floors, send a note to the Thain, quickly bathe, set the table, and make menu cards.

    Now, all there was to do was wait.

 

* * *

 

    Dwalin was irritated. To be fair, he was hardly ever content. But right now, he was definitely -3 on the 1-10 scale of how irritated he was. 

    By Mahal, these... Bobbits? Cobbits? … Well, whatever they called themselves, they were the most useless creatures on Arda. No muscle, no weapons, no armour. (To be fair, Dwalin wondered if the obscene amount of fat they had acted as a sort of natural protection) It was obviously only protected by nature (which he could understand to an extent; after all, a mountain offered superior protection to everything that *wasn’t* a dragon) and the graciousness of those Rangers. 

    A Hobbit! That’s what they called themselves. Well, even if Dwalin believed that bringing one of these.. _Things_ along was a liability, he could at least admit that tonight seemed a positive. Promised free food (which obviously had to be good, given how large every hobbit was), seeing his brother for the first time in 5 years, and seeing the Durin’s again. While he was most excited about Thorin, Dwalin could admit that it would even be nice to see Dís’ balrogs, Fíli and Kíli. (Though he would probably be ready to knock their heads together and leave them trussed up in the nearest tree after an hour.)

    Dwalin finally arrived at the hole in the ground, and idly noted he was the first one there. He paused, remembering that Mithrandir had  insisted that Balin be the first to arrive. Dwalin considered his options (Wait for Balin and follow Mithrandir’s plan, or possibly frighten the hobbit and maybe get first dibs at food?), then promptly threw consideration out the window. While the sons of Fundin were both educated and highly intelligent, Dwalin preferred  _ doing _ instead of pondering when it came to daily life. As such, Dwalin raised his hand, and knocked.

 

* * *

 

    Three heavy, dull thuds could be heard coming from the door. Bilbo cursed up a storm as he headed towards the door; if this was one of the dinner guests, he was half an hour early. 

    “Ah, uh, just a moment!” Bilbo yelled. “This must be a sign from the Green Goddess herself,” he muttered to himself. “Showing up to dinner half an hour early? Incredibly rude! This does NOT bode well at all.” Finally reaching the door, Bilbo pulled it open, and promptly shut it again.    
  


 

* * *

 

    First of all, Dwalin was made to wait. This in and of itself was a very rare occurrence, as Dwalin was as infamous as he was revered by the inhabitants of the Blue Mountain. Secondly, when the door was opened, the... the... child had the audacity to slam it in his face! Dwalin all but flung the door back open. (He sent a quick apology to his adad, who he knew must be losing his mind in Mahal’s Halls.) 

    When the door banged open, the hobbit on the other side let out a little squeak. It was just a wee thing, probably (no, definitely) younger the Fíli and Kíli. (Dwalin felt a little bad, but his outrage outweighed his guilt at the moment) 

    “Aye laddie! Who d’you think ya are, slammin’ doors in dwarf faces? Your parents did nae teach you better?”  

    The poor thing made an indignant noise, and drew itself up to his (rather pitiful) full height. Dwalin made sure to keep on his disappointed face, the one that had always made the Durin terrors apologize and cry. Right as the wee lad’s cheeks puffed up (which where endearingly flushed and chubby),  another knock rang out across the home. 

 

* * *

 

    Bilbo’s patience was as thin as strudel dough. The absolute nerve! The audacity! This absolute  _ behemoth  _  of a dwarf showed up early, forced his way into Bag End, then proceeded to lecture him! Bilbo, of course, could not let such indignities slide, and was about to let loose a tongue lashing of such proportions which Hobbiton hadn’t seen in recent memory. 

    Then, someone knocked. Storing his retort in his left cheek so it would be easily accessible later (rather much like a chipmunk), Bilbo straightened his jacket, dusted his hands on his apron, and headed to the door. 

    As he neared, he resolved to be such a gracious host that his so called  _ guests _ would choke on his superb hosting skills. He would be so gracious, so endearing, so  _ accommodating _ that he would be able to shove it down everyone’s throats tonight  alongside the impeccable meal. (And, with him being so gracious, he would only let them choke for a minute or two; just long enough to enjoy a sip or three of wine.) Resolutely, Bilbo opened the door and smiled.    
  


* * *

 

    On the other side of the door stood a dwarf that was quite a bit shorter than the one currently wandering throughout his smial. (Honestly, Bilbo thought this new dwarfs height to be more sensible than Mr.  _ Saddle Goose  _ over there.) Bilbo’s mood only heightened when he noticed his new guest was wearing a red jacket (well, it was more of a robe really, but Bilbo’s favourite coat colour was red and any shade variant). 

    The dwarf’s voice interrupted Bilbo’s scrutinizing. “Balin, Son of Fundin.” A quick, shallow bow was accompanied by an “At your service.” 

    ‘What a peculiar greeting,’ Bilbo mused. “Bilbo Baggins, Son of Bungo, at yours,” was returned succinctly. (Bilbo attempted a bow, but his apron cut into his stomach quite fiercely. Unrelated, Bilbo’s new goal in life was to escape his guests for a second to either re-tie his apron, or more preferably, remove it entirely.)  Bilbo stepped aside and gestured his arm. “Please, do come in.”     
  


* * *

 

    Even though Balin was old enough to remember Erebor, to remember the feeling, the deep-seated  _ right-ness _ of being surrounded completely by stone and the all consuming sense of safety it offers; he was old enough and disillusioned enough to admit that The Shire was nice. 

    While his very essence called out longingly for the stones and mountains their maker Mahal has made just for them, there was a contentment that seemed to emanate from every simple thing from this fertile, gentle land. 

    Balin had been blessed with good fortune to pass through Michel Delving on Market Day, and managed to sell off the last of his fancy inks, quills, and other various stationary while also procuring some last minute items he knew some dwarrow would forget. But that afternoon he spent merchandising his wares wasn’t spent in vain. Years living on the cusp of poverty had only enhanced his observant eye, and the inhabitants of this land were almost obnoxious in how transparent they were. 

    Soft hands calloused only by gardening tools or  writing instruments. Faded scars obviously related to knife injuries from meal prepping and burn marks from hot pots and pans. Soft curves and round faces showed an appreciation for/an abundance of food, while a frankly alarming amount of children ran unsupervised, showing high birth and survival rates. (Balin could faithfully say that if there were this many children in any dwarvish settlement, they would be watched like hawks by all inhabitants. Children were rare, and his smile became slightly forced the more near-injuries he observed that were brushed off or just ignored completely by the surrounding adults.) 

    Truthfully, by the time Balin had to leave to make it to the burglars house on time, he was glad to go. A bitter sort of melancholy had taken root, one that would not go away no matter how valiantly he had tried to squash it and choke it out.  He could not deny these folk their good lives, but he couldn’t help but wonder why his kin were denied these pleasures. As he walked down the long, winding roads wedged between houses aglow with warmth and family and gardens with a preternatural abundance of vegetation, his mind wouldn’t musing about how, if the blasted drake hadn’t come down, would Erebor had been this prosperous? Would there be dozens of pebbles running loose around Erebor’s markets unsupervised with no one batting an eye? Would they have so many emeralds they could be considered a nuisance or burden? 

Finally, Balin crested over the top of a small hill and saw the house. A quick glance at the street sign hung up on a light post verified that this was indeed Bagshot Row. He paused, and took a quick moment to compose himself. Closing the small gate behind him, a quick cross of the short front path and stairs, followed by a swift rapt on the curiously round door, then Balin waited to meet their burglar. 

    The Hobbit who opened the door was… odd, to say the least. He was slightly taller than the other hobbits Balin had come across, and was slightly more thin as well. Diplomat skills coming out, Balin introduced himself. Noticing the hobbit’s slight amusement at the traditional dwarven greeting, Balin was pleased to surmise that he was the first one here. (Seeing as the entire company traveled separately, the arrival order was bound to be tentative.) 

    After the hobbit (one Bilbo Baggins) awkwardly introduced himself in a somewhat cumbersome manner, he was invited in. Trailing behind the host, his thoughts were halted as he saw a face he hadn’t seen in five years. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I know Dwalin hasn't *actually* introduced himself to Bilbo, that'll happen next chapter. That's why Bilbo hadn't heard the "at your service" bit before, and gives him the name Mr. Saddle Goose (which is an old English insult meant to say that the person is silly/ridiculous enough to try and, well, saddle a goose). On another note, Bilbo isn't in his bathrobe because he knew he was having company. I also have no idea where Balin's part came from, I was in a ~mood~. Sorry lol. And sorry again about the late update.


End file.
